If she was dead, he would make Imaria pay, no matter how long it took or how much it cost. Though he dared not turn any of his attention from Mournacht.
If Morigna was dead, Ridmark might join her soon enough.
“This is the end, Gray Knight!” roared Mournacht. “The void shall claim you. How I have looked forward to seeing you die in agony!”
“Then why?” said Ridmark, watching the towering warlord and trying to catch his breath, sweat burning in his eyes. “Then why am I still alive? Can you do anything other than boast of my death?”
In answer Mournacht pointed his axe at him, crimson fire surging down its length.
Ridmark had expected the attack and he threw himself to the charred ground, the blast of blood sorcery hurtling over his head. He rolled to his feet, staying ahead of Mournacht’s next attack, and dodged again. From the corner of his eye, he saw the bolt of bloody fire shoot past the altar, no doubt to fizzle out against one of the menhirs or the slope of the Black Mountain itself.
Instead, the spell veered to the left, pulled towards the altar and the soulstone upon its surface. The crimson fire vanished into the pillar of blue flame.
As if the mighty spell powering the opening gate had sucked in the dark magic for itself.
Calliande had said that her Sight did not work properly here due to the vortex of dark magic snarling around the circle of menhirs. Did that mean it would drain away any dark magic that came near the altar?
What if something of dark magic actually touched the altar?
An idea came to Ridmark.
“Arandar!” said Ridmark, and the bleeding, battered Swordbearer looked at him. “Altar!”
Arandar looked at Mournacht, at Ridmark, and then understanding went through his eyes. He nodded, raised Heartwarden, and charged at Mournacht, his soulblade flying through a masterful display of sword work. Mournacht parried the Swordbearer’s attacks, and Ridmark struck, whipping his staff at Mournacht’s legs and arms. Mournacht snarled and drew back his hand for another spell, a blast of shadow-wreathed crimson fire bursting from his fingers. Ridmark stepped behind Arandar, and the older man raised Heartwarden, the soulblade’s fury deflecting the dark magic. Ridmark kept moving, and this time his staff connected with Mournacht’s forehead, snapping the orcish warlord’s head back. Mournacht stumbled, and Arandar attacked, hammering at Mournacht’s chest with heavy strokes. His third attack connected, and Heartwarden tore a smoking gash across the orc’s ribs, a gash that did not heal as fast as the other wounds Mournacht had taken.
Mournacht bellowed in fury, and in answer to the attack he simply punched Arandar in the head.
Arandar’s head snapped to the left, accompanied by the sound of collapsing metal. The Swordbearer fell to the ground, a massive dent into the left side of his helmet. Ridmark did not know if the blow had killed Arandar or not.
There was no time to find out. Their attack had driven Mournacht within a few feet of the altar. Ridmark sidestepped, driving his staff across the back of Mournacht’s knees. The staff bounced from his hands with the force of the blow, but Mournacht stumbled closer to Ridmark.
The warlord raised his axe to end the fight, and Ridmark threw himself at Mournacht, his shoulder slamming into the Chosen of Mhor’s stomach. He heard the breath explode from Mournacht’s lungs, and Mournacht fell backwards.
Right against the side of the altar.
Mournacht screamed, the shadows ripping from him to sink into the altar, the glyphs of fire upon his chest and arms dimming as the great spell sucked away his power. Pain exploded through Ridmark as the barest edge of the blue fire touched him, and he rocked back, trying not to scream.
Yet his hands remained steady, and he yanked the dwarven war axe from his belt and brought it down with all his strength.
The blade struck Mournacht’s forehead and sank deep into his skull.
Mournacht, the warlord of Kothluusk and the Chosen of Mhor, slumped lifeless against the side of the altar, his black eyes wide with horror, Ridmark’s axe jutting from his head.
Ridmark stumbled back, breathing hard, and looked around for his staff.
But it was too late.
They had lost.
Both Imaria and the Weaver had fled, but Kharlacht, Caius, Gavin, Arandar, and Constantine were all motionless upon the ground. Morigna lay about twelve yards away. Ridmark saw that she was still breathing, at least for now, but he did not know how badly she had been hurt. Antenora lay slumped against one of the menhirs, and to judge from the peculiar angle of her arms and legs, Shadowbearer’s magic had flung against the dark stone with enough force to shatter her bones.
Calliande was on her knees, leaning against her staff as she trembled. She was trying to rise, trying to work another spell, but Ridmark saw that she had reached the uttermost limits of her strength. He suspected it took all her will to remain upon her knees, to keep from falling over.
Shadowbearer strolled towards her, a wide smile on his damaged face. Blue fire and shadow burst from his outstretched hand, smashing into the pale white light of the ward around Calliande. She growled and tried to stand, but the white light failed, the ward collapsing.
Calliande slumped forward, her body trembling, her forehead resting against the staff.
She was beaten.
“Ah,” said Shadowbearer with profound satisfaction. “At last.”
Blue fire gathered around his hand for the killing spell.
“Shadowbearer!” shouted Ridmark, hoping to distract him.
The quicksilver eyes turned towards him, and Shadowbearer’s smile widened.
Ridmark’s axe was buried in Mournacht’s skull, and his staff lay upon the ground. Not that it mattered, since neither weapon could harm Shadowbearer. Nor did Ridmark have any way of protecting himself from Shadowbearer’s killing magic. The staff might have stopped the shadows from paralyzing Ridmark, but it would not stop Shadowbearer from burning him to ashes.
He had only one option left, only one choice, and it would mean his death.
Ridmark stooped over Arandar’s prone form, gripped Heartwarden’s hilt, and lifted the soulblade.
Chapter 22: One Hundred Thousand Years Of War
For a moment nothing happened.
Arandar had changed the leather wrap around the soulblade’s hilt, but otherwise Heartwarden felt the same, exactly the same, as it had when Ridmark had last carried it five years ago. It felt the same as it had when he had driven the blade through Gothalinzur’s heart, as when he had struck down Mhalek in the great hall of Castra Marcaine.
As it had on the day Aelia had died.
Shadowbearer stared at him, the intact side of his face tight with astonishment.
Then pain exploded through Ridmark, pain unlike any he had ever known.
He screamed, the agony erupting through his head and spreading down him like a sheet of molten metal, Heartwarden letting out a furious chiming sound. The remnants of his previous bond with the soulblade remained, and he felt the weapon in his hand, felt its magic waiting to be called.
Except his bond with the sword had been severed, and Heartwarden rejected him.
The rejection took the form of pain, endless pain, and it took everything Ridmark had not to fall in a boneless pile to the ground. It was as if the headache he felt every time Arandar used Heartwarden had been multiplied a thousand times and spread through every particle of his body.
He felt moisture on his face, and realized that he was bleeding from his nose and mouth, and probably his ears as well.
Ridmark forced himself to take a step towards Shadowbearer, and then another. He wobbled like a drunk, fighting to make his muscles obey.
Shadowbearer was laughing at him.
###
Calliande cursed herself, trying to gather her reeling thoughts together to cast a spell.
She could not. She had reached the limits of her strength. Just as a knight finally became too exhausted to lift his sword for another stroke, so too had Calliande
spent the last of her stamina. If she could just rest for a few moments, she could gather enough power for a spell.
She didn’t have a few minutes.
She could barely stay upright. If not for the staff, she would have collapsed.
Calliande could do nothing as Ridmark clutched Heartwarden in his right fist, blood dripping from his nose and ears, the sword’s fire snarling at him. With the Sight Calliande saw the soulblade’s rage, its fury as it attacked Ridmark through his broken bond. The pain should have left him sprawled in a prone heap.
Yet he lurched forward, step by determined step, the sword weaving back and forth as he tried to lift it.
“This is marvelous,” said Shadowbearer in his double voice, malicious glee filling his words. “Utterly marvelous.” His shadow slithered around him like a restless serpent. “For a moment I thought you might do it, that you might actually be able to pick up that soulblade and force it to yield. But it has rejected you, hasn’t it? Utterly and completely. You could pick up one of the other soulblades, of course, but they would sense the broken bond and reject you as well. It’s as if they see the coward’s brand upon your face.”
Ridmark said nothing, plodding towards Shadowbearer, his features a rictus of pain and concentration.
“There is no need for me to kill you,” said Shadowbearer. “The pain is going to stop your heart sooner or later, probably sooner. Maybe even before I finish this sentence.” He looked at Calliande, the black veins beneath his grayish skin seeming to writhe and pulse. “You can watch, my lady Keeper. One final gift to you. My final repayment for the centuries of my wasted time. You can watch as your precious Gray Knight dies in front of you.”
Calliande growled and tried to work a spell, and nearly passed out for her efforts.
“Watching you die, Gray Knight,” said Shadowbearer, “will give me immense satisfaction. Look at you. No magic, no soulblade, no armies, no noble title. You are an ape with a stick! Everything worked perfectly, and then you bungled into my plans. You should have died at Moraime. You should have died at the Iron Tower, at Urd Morlemoch, at Khald Azalar!” He let out a long sigh. “But you shall know your failure profoundly before you die. Perhaps I’ll kill your precious Keeper in front of you and let your heart give out. You went to such lengths to save her, and all of it wasted! Or maybe your concubine from the Wilderland? Perhaps I’ll kill them both!”
He laughed, long and loud and delighted, and sound of his double voice’s amusement was hideous. Ridmark did not answer, did not retort.
He just kept staggering forward, like a man struggling under a heavy burden.
“And still you do not give up!” said Shadowbearer. “The implacable Gray Knight! How marvelous you are. If bound you in chains that would take ten thousand years to break, you would not despair. You would pick up a chisel and start scraping. Come on, then.” He spread his arms, his red coat rippling in the wind spinning around the altar. “Come to me, Gray Knight, and strike me down.”
Ridmark kept going, raising Heartwarden for a shaky blow. Still Shadowbearer did not move. For a wild instant Calliande thought Ridmark would succeed, that Shadowbearer had become too confident, that Heartwarden would strike home.
But Shadowbearer disappeared in a swirl of blue fire and shadow, and Heartwarden passed through the empty air to strike ground. Ridmark almost fell over, leaning on the sword like a cane, both hands grasping the hilt, and pushed himself upright.
Shadowbearer reappeared a dozen yards away, his laughter ringing out.
Despair filled Calliande.
She had failed, utterly failed. The sacrifice of the Order of the Vigilant had been for nothing. It all had been for nothing. Shadowbearer had triumphed, and she could do nothing to stop him. Only Shadowbearer’s wish to amuse himself had kept him from killing her.
Again and again she fought to summon power, but her exhausted mind refused to obey.
###
Ridmark turned, his heartbeat a thundering drum, every step filling him fresh pain. His heartbeat, part of his reeling mind noticed, was getting faster. Shadowbearer had said his heart would give out from the pain, and that seemed imminent.
The thought didn’t daunt Ridmark. At least it meant the pain would stop.
“Come on, Gray Knight,” said Shadowbearer, spreading his arms again. “Strike me down. Surely you can do it! You slew Mournacht and Paul Tallmane and Coriolus. Surely the mighty Gray Knight can defeat me as well!”
Ridmark stumbled towards him, knowing Shadowbearer’s game. The corrupted wizard would taunt him, traveling back and forth across the circle until Ridmark’s strength gave out. Or if Ridmark put down Heartwarden and picked up another weapon, Shadowbearer would simply kill him and Calliande on the spot. Shadowbearer had spent the entire battle flicking back and forth across the circle, but showed no signs of weariness. Though he had not used that tactic in Khald Azalar…
Ridmark blinked, sweat and blood pouring down his face as Shadowbearer laughed and laughed.
Shadowbearer had not used that traveling spell in Khald Azalar because he could not. The empty soulstone had anchored him in place. That soulstone now sat upon the altar, channeling the immense energies that would become the world gate.
But Ridmark had another one.
His shaking left hand dropped to his belt, to the leather pouch that hung there.
“Come and die, Gray Knight,” said Shadowbearer. “Come and die, and I shall have my freedom.”
“Freedom?” said Ridmark, his voice an unrecognizable rasp.
He kept lurching towards Shadowbearer, and yanked the pouch from his belt as he did so, the object within heavy against his trembling fingers. Shadowbearer did not notice. More likely, he did not care. Likely he thought that Ridmark had torn the pouch from his belt in his dying spasms.
“More freedom than you can possibly understand,” said Shadowbearer, the alien half of his voice mad with rage. “Freedom from this wretched world. Freedom from the constraints of mere matter. Not that you can understand it, and even if you could, you would not live to see it.” Again he spread his arms, the long red coat billowing around him like wings made of blood. “You failed your wife. You failed the Keeper, you failed your lover, and you have now failed your realm and your kindred. Come and strike me down, Gray Knight, and fail one final time.”
Ridmark kept plodding towards Shadowbearer, gathering his strength for what he needed to do. He had only one chance to get this right. He tried to gauge the distance, attempting to concentrate through the agony filling his mind. He had been three yards from Shadowbearer the last time his enemy had traveled away. Right now he was no more than six yards from Shadowbearer, the wizard’s quicksilver eyes filled with contemptuous mockery.
Five yards.
Four yards.
Heartwarden screamed its fury in Ridmark’s veins.
Shadowbearer gestured, blue fire gathering in his right hand as he started to travel away.
Ridmark threw the pouch at him.
Shadowbearer’s free hand snapped up and caught the pouch. “Throwing coins?” he said, laughing again. “A pathetic end to a pathetic man. It…”
His mockery dissolved into a frown, his eyes narrowing at the pouch.
Ridmark threw himself at Shadowbearer with an incoherent cry, raising Heartwarden high.
Shadowbearer sneered at him and started to travel away, blue fire and shadow swirling around him.
Only for the spell to collapse against the weight of the rough soulstone Shadowbearer held in his left hand.
Shadowbearer’s eyes widened as he realized what had happened, and his right hand came up, killing fire filling his fingers.
But it was too late.
Ridmark drove Heartwarden with all his anger and fear and failing strength behind it, and the blade slashed down, ripping through Shadowbearer’s shoulder. Shadowbearer stumbled with a scream, white fire erupting from the soulblade to sink into his flesh. Ridmark wrenched Heartwarden free, the ghastly wound he ha
d carved into Shadowbearer sizzling and blackening. Shadowbearer’s two-part voice broke apart, his elven voice bellowing threats, the alien snarl simply howling in pain and rage. Blue fire swirled around his hands as he summoned dark magic, so much that the air around him bled shadows.
Heartwarden shone like molten metal as Ridmark drove the sword forward.
The soulblade plunged into Shadowbearer’s chest and found his heart.
Shadowbearer threw back his head and screamed, and the shadows exploded from him, erupting in all directions from his flesh. More shadows exploded from his mouth, shooting into the air like a geyser, and they burst from the black veins beneath his skin. The shadows rose overhead, seeming to take the shape of…some immense creature. A dragon, a serpent, a monstrosity like an urvuul or a malophage, Ridmark could not have said. He felt the huge shadow regarding him, felt its malice, hatred beyond the capacity of a human mind to understand.
Then the huge shadow hurtled away to the south, vanishing from sight.
Shadowbearer screamed again, and the leather bag clutched in his hand burned away. The rough soulstone burned like a blue sun. His dark magic was draining into it, Ridmark realized, filling it up like a reservoir.
And Shadowbearer possessed more dark magic than the reservoir could hold.
The rough soulstone screamed and then exploded. Heartwarden’s hilt ripped from Ridmark’s grasp, and he hurtled backwards, hit the ground, and then knew no more.
Chapter 23: Work To Be Done
A long, long time later, Ridmark’s mind swam back to consciousness.
He felt terrible.
After a moment he managed to get his eyes open.
It was dark, well past sundown. Ridmark saw three of the thirteen moons shining overhead, throwing pale silvery-blue light over the circle and the darkened menhirs…
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 30